My path is sometimes the one less traveled. But the road is mine all mine.

Kindergarten day 1: how was your day? Bad. Why? I don’t want to talk about it.

Kindergarten day 2: did you have a good day? No.

Why? Stop asking me.

Kindergarten day 3: did you have fun today? (Silence).

We need to make a quick stop at the supermarket. (Tears and more tears).

Kindergarten day 4: I’m not going to school today. Nope. Nope. Not going.

What was one thing about school this week that you liked? (Worried parents think he’ll say nothing.)

I like the switches. (Refers to system of moving kids around the first 3 days so they get time with all teachers.)

Long weekend

Kindergarten day 5: home sick with an ear infection.

Kindergarten day 6: Hey buddy. Was school fun today?

I wanted to have a play date with Max but he did an after school program.

Kindergarten day (something past 10): Do you like your teacher?

Him: He used to be like this (shows me a solid thumbs down). Then he was like this (shows me a sideways thumb, which I interpret to mean neutral). Now, he’s like this (thumb up but only at 45- degree angle). Not this (full upright thumb signifying complete success). Like this (thumb up at 45-degree angle).

Like this:

“Red Sings from Treetops: A Year in Colors.” It’s a gorgeous children’s book of poetry and art.

Pamela Zagarenski makes me understand that children can appreciate art. My son and I marvel at her drawings together. Every time we look, we uncover something new we hadn’t noticed before. Some special small touch. Some hint at a deeper meaning.

Like this:

When I woke up at 3am stuffy, coughing and headachy, I turned off my 5:25am alarm. I made the official call. No bootcamp today.

In my fitful sleep between 5:30am- 6:30am, I dreamed restlessly. I dreamed my bootcamp instructor was in the class with me. She kept ignoring the teacher’s instructions to do her own thing, and each time she was chastised. She laughed at it. I laughed at it but I followed instructions.

The point is, I didn’t go to exercise class. But I dreamt about it, so I’m pretty sure that counts.

Like this:

The streamers are hanging from his bedroom doorway. The gifts from us and from the grandparents far away are wrapped. The goodie bags of stickers for his schoolmates are prepared and by the front door.

He wakes up early. His body knows it’s a special day.

We sing to him at breakfast with a candle stuck in his strawberry. He likes that.

Dinner is one of his favorites – breakfast for dinner. Chocolate chip pancakes and orange juice. He goes to sleep happy, disappointed only at not having quite enough time to play with his new toys.

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Today, he’s been 6 for a whole day. He lays underneath a chair, belly on the floor, lifts his body and pushes the chair off the ground.

“Look what I can do now that I’m 6, mama. Look.

Before, when I was 5, I could only push the chair a little.”

He pushes his body off the floor, his back just barely moves the chair.

“That’s when I was 5. Now that I’m 6, I can do this. I can move the whole thing.”

“Why are they up so late,” he asks. “I mean there’s all these people on bicycles and there’s a bus. It’s crazy.” He’s emphatic.

This is unusual. It’s East Bay Bike Party, I learn. It’s loud enough that he can’t fall asleep because boom boxes, or whatever people use these days, on bikes are flying by our windows. It’s pretty loud.

But to me, the funnier part is that he thinks the world goes to sleep when he does. He’s surprised all these people are awake when it’s bedtime.

It’s self centered yet simple. I wish I could have that freedom. No fear of missing out. No worrying about what might happen after I leave or before I arrive. Beautiful.